Tintin:Against Time
by RedRainStar
Summary: A childhood friend turns up on Tintin's doorstep with a desperate plea for help: He must help her find her missing brother. But as a deeper plot unravels, the youthful reporter may find that he's running out of time... Rated T for violence etc.
1. Chapter 1: Labrador Street

**Hi everyone! This is my new Tintin Fic, Tintin Against Time! I've loved Tintin for a very long time but when I saw the film, I just had to write a fan fic. I couldn't resist!**

**I'm hoping to update weekly, Saturdays GMT but since I'm in the middle of exams, it's looking like fortnightly. Anyhow, enjoy!**

**Edit: Re-uploaded Chapter 1 due to the atrocious amount of spelling mistakes. If you've read Chapter 1, just move on, nothing much has changed. If you're a new reader, please do read it!**

CHAPTER 1

A middle aged woman answered the door to the block of apartments on Labrador Street. Peering over her full moon glasses, she looked me up and down before speaking.

"Yes? Are you here about the flat upstairs?"

"I'm here to see Tintin actually." I felt myself redden as she rolled her eyes.

"Of course, always to see Mr Tintin. Well he's not in, you'll have to wait."

I glanced back at the busy, rumbling street behind me, and most importantly at the rain bouncing on the cobbled road. "Can I wait inside?"

The woman reluctantly pulled aside the door. "Why not, why not? Just head up, he's probably left the door open anyway, he always does. First on the right as you go up."

Up I went, up the narrow wooden stairs. The first door on the right was rather unassuming, the same dull brown as the rest of the block. But even as I approached it, it became obvious that it wasn't like the others at all.

True to the woman's word, the door was open. Trying not to feel like I was breaking and entering, I turned the red paint-printed door handle and crept in.

The room was like an Aladdin's cave, a mess of beautiful objects. A fireplace was the first thing I saw, a giant mirror framed above it, making the small flat seem twice as big. To the right of it, giant French windows opened out onto a view of the Belgian rooftops. The desk next to it was encrusted with leaves of paper and a majestic looking type writer, the floor littered with boxes and ornaments. Picture frames lined the mantle piece like a shrine to people I didn't know. I placed my suitcase on the floor and walked gingerly across the sea of tat to the montage on the opposite wall.

His first article, a modest piece on a film that had come out at the time took pride of place in the middle, a tiny photo and a chirpy "I look forward to writing more for you!" signing it off.

Then all around, special editions of all the adventures he'd been on, surrounded the first, The Soviet Russia edition directly above and all the others circling around like rays of sun. I put my fingers up on the glass and leant in close, reading the tiny text even though I'd read it millions of times before. He wrote so well, it made anyone who read it believe they were there with him. Or long to be with him at least.

Suddenly there was a loud bang from downstairs as what I could only hope was the front door banged against the wall.

"Morning Mrs Fisher!"

"Mr Tintin, there's-" The woman was cut off as footsteps bounded up the stairwell.

"Awful weather, isn't it? Jeez, I hate rain... Which is why I really _don't _need you shaking your wet fur all over me! Why do you think I ran home with the paper on my head Snowy? Where is my key... Oh the door's probably open..."

I turned as the door swung open. A white shape shot through the gap and promptly began snuffling in a pile of papers in the corner. I ignored this and turned my attention to the figure in the doorway. A dripping wet mac hung past the plus-four clad knees, open at the front to reveal a plain white shirt and a homely looking pull over jumper, and as he pulled the sopping newspaper from his head, a quiff of ginger hair crowned the boyish, freckle dusted face I knew and loved.

"Oh," said Tintin, finally spotting me. "Never saw you there. Did Mrs Fisher let you in?"

"Rather begrudgingly, yes." I smiled.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, I only went out to get a paper. Not a lot of use that's going to be now," He threw it into a near by bin with a disgusted look. "I'm really sorry, I haven't even asked your name!"

I felt a smile creep across my face. "Sophie. Sophie Dubois."

Tintin's eyes widened. "Sophie! No- no _way_! Of course, how could I not recognise you? Come here- wait," He stripped off his mac and looped it over a peg on the wall. "There. Now, come here," He opened his arms and kissed me once on both cheeks. "Stand back, let me take a look at you- golly!"

"It's only been three years Tintin!" I reminded him, giggling as he took my coat and hat from me.

"I know, but you already look so different!" He tidied some papers away in an attempt to straighten his unprepared flat. "How old are you, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I was 16 a couple of months ago. You can't be much older."

"19 beginning of next year _ma cherie, _there's a difference!" Tintin ushered me into a basket chair and sat opposite me, pouring a cup of tea from the pot on the dusty coffee table.

"_Boy _reporter no more then!" I smiled, taking the slightly cold cup he offered me. Tintin wrinkled his nose.

"Tell me about it. Oi, Snowy!" Here he turned to the white mass in the corner. "Stop being anti-social and come and meet our guest."

In a moment, a pure white, curly haired fox terrier sat at my feet, looking slightly annoyed at being interrupted but thoroughly enjoying the fawning he was getting off me.

"Hello sweetheart! Snowy, isn't it? What a darling! When did you get him?"

"When I arrived here. I was feeling a bit lonely in a flat by myself. He's been a great pal." Snowy settled his head on Tintin's shoes and his master rubbed his ears fondly. "So," Tintin settled back in the armchair. "How are you? Still at school?"

"Of course! I didn't run off like you did."

"Hey, 'running off' -as you very unkindly put it- has done a lot for me. And at least I have a job, I didn't leave school just because I didn't like it or something. I had more going for me here." He gestured around the flat, nearly spilling tea on Snowy.

"Ah yes, all these wonderful adventures, all over the world! And all in the name of journalism. I have to say, I'm quite jealous."

"I don't go looking for the adventurous bit. Trouble just seems to find me."

"I shouldn't complain, it's making you famous!"

Tintin reddened. "I feel like there's more newspaper articles being written about me than I'm actually writing. But after you get over the fear of being buried alive or beaten to death with a heavy object, it's a pretty smashing job," He laughed. "But I'm digressing. Tell me, how is Jacques?"

I felt my face fall. Tintin leant forward. "Is something wrong with him?"

"I don't know," My voice suddenly went very quiet. "I know it sounds silly, but it's why I'm here. You were the only one I could think of who might be able to help-I'm sorry-" I put my hands to my face as tears began to well up. Snowy lifted his head and Tintin was starting to look concerned. He lowered my hands from my eyes and took them in his own.

"Sophie, you must tell me. What has happened to Jacques?"

"He's gone missing Tintin. He was working in the shop and he was supposed to come home for the weekend and he didn't. I mean he used to go out and stay with his friends but he would always ring! Always! The employees said he left at the normal time and everything but now he's gone and I'm so worried!"

I was pretty much hysterical by this point and Tintin was doing his best to calm me, but I could tell he was as worried as I. He took my cup of tea off me and told me to fill him in on everything that had happened since he left us three years ago.

Jacques is my brother, the same age as Tintin. They had met at _coll__é__ge_, became firm friends and Tintin had become a regular face around our house.

Jacques had never wanted me hanging around when Tintin came over. The two of them would disappear into the woods for hours, having wild adventures and making strange contraptions out of junk. I was fascinated, but as a girl, my elder brother deemed such excursions inappropriate. Therefore, I'd never gotten to know Tintin very well as a child. He was just another one of Jacques friends. However as we got older it emerged that Tintin was a pretty dab hand at tennis, and as a suitably unisex games, Jacques allowed me to join them. I was far better at tennis than Jacques was so in the end the sport became an event that predominantly Tintin and I indulged in. Many a summer's evening was spent on the local tennis courts, sipping bottled lemonade and smashing aces until it got too dark too see. That's how I'd gotten to know him, about his life, his family, his aspirations. That's how I'd grown to know him as pretty much the nicest human being I would ever know, how I'd grown to love him as one of the best friends I would ever have. I could see why he was Jacques best friend. That's why we were both so torn up when he left.

It was one of those days when Jacques had graced us with his presence upon the tennis green. We were sitting against the chicken wire, munching on cheese sandwiches when he announced it. When that summer ended, Tintin would not be going to _lyc__é__e _with Jacques as we'd all thought. He'd taken up a job as a junior reporter with a newspaper called "Le Vingtéme Siécle" and and he would be moving to Brussels. Alone. I immediately congratulated him, but I felt crushed. My summer days with Tintin were drawing to a close, the friendship we had lighted was being blown out by the wind of greater things. As my brother and I waved him off at the train station we were sure we'd never hear from him again, even though he promised to write to us. Tintin was far too flighty to bother with such things.

However almost a year later, Tintin's face was splashed across every paper in Belgium, along with his accompanying article in "Le Vingtéme Siécle", describing adventures almost too wonderful to be real. The criminals, the kidnaps, the daring chases and escapes... It was like a dream! Jacques read it, and every other article that followed, and although he never said it, I knew he was jealous. The tales he and Tintin had concocted in the woods were nothing compared to what Tintin was experiencing in real life and the light in Jacques eyes grew more hungry the more he read. By the time he was 18, Jacques was a restless as a caged bird. He longed to spread his wings and fly to lands unknown, to have journeys of his own, to conquer the world as Tintin had.

But the article on China delivered the worst blow. Whilst reading it together we marvelled at Tintin's rescue of a young Chinese boy, Chang, from a flooded river. I thought this extremely brave, but Jacques' face was ashen. And if the picture of them smiling, arms around each other wasn't enough, the caption below it describing Chang as "Almost the closest thing to a best friend" was.

I found the paper in the bin the next morning. Jacques was broken.

He never went on his adventures. While Tintin jetted to the Congo and traipsed across Europe, Jacques took a place at our father's watch making business in Brugge. I could tell it made him unhappy, but I never confronted him about it. Some things were best left alone.

This I told to Tintin as the rain continued to empty itself outside the window. The light had taken on a greyish tone, dulling the ginger of Tintin's hair to a reddish brown. He sat, sunk into the armchair, his fingers steepled and his head resting against the back of the chair, a slight frown crossing his features. Snowy switched his gave from his master to me, a small whine escaping him.

"I'm sorry. I never realised I'd hurt you both so much. I know it was sudden, me leaving but-" Tintin looked up at me sharply. "You don't think he left just because of me?"

"I don't think Jacques would have left at all, at least not without telling us. I have no idea Tintin but I have a horrible feeling some thing's happened. Father's gotten the police involved but they've done nothing. All we know is he left work and never came home, and they haven't gotten much further." I leant forward. "Please Tintin, will you help me find him?" I sounded so desperate, I was horrified at myself. Tintin lowered his hands and looked hard at me.

"You don't even have to ask that Sophie. You know I'll always help you, in anything," Noting my tearful face, he rose, pulled me to my feet and enveloped me in a warm hug. "We'll find him. I'll sort out this mess that I've made and we'll get him back. I promise."

"Don't blame yourself Tintin, please," I begged. Tintin pulled back and wiped a tear from my cheek.

"Do you want to call your folks and tell them you've arrived safely?"

I felt myself colour. "They... don't... know I'm here..." I mumbled to my shoes.

"What the- Sophie! They're going to be worried sick!" Tintin exclaimed.

"I knew they wouldn't let me come to you! They didn't think you'd be able to do anything. "Leave it to the police"; I'll be damned if I let the police "handle" it any more! They deserved to be worried!" I pouted.

"They've just lost one child, they don't want the other one gone too! Think a little!" Tintin threw his hands in the air in desperation. "How long ago did you leave home?"

I felt my anger die slightly as I realised what I'd done. "Two days ago... I got taxi to the station then took the train. I spent a day asking around for you so..."

Tintin thrust the receiver into my hand, his eyebrows raised. "Sophie, call them."

I took the phone from him reluctantly. Tintin pulled a chair out from the desk at the windows, inserted fresh paper into the typewriter and cracked his knuckles.

"I have a lot of work to do so please keep family disputes to a minimum." He gave a cheeky grin.

I called my family home. Snowy jumped up onto the counter next to me and put his head close to the phone, as if he were listening to my conversation. I smiled and patted his head. Much to my disappointment, it was my mother who answered. I tried to talk quietly for Tintin's sake but my mother almost brought me to the point of throwing the phone at the wall. Being a teenager was the most difficult age that I'd had to face: I was treated like a child and expected to act like an adult. Just when I thought I couldn't take another "very-irresponsible-too-headstrong-for-your-own-good" lecture, Tintin rose from his seat and silently took the phone from my grasp.

"Good evening Mme. Dubois, it's Tintin here. Tintin, Jacques friend. I'm glad to hear you were having tea with my mother last week, she likes getting visitors. Yes, I still work for the newspaper," He stuck his tongue out at me as my mother's inaudible chatter leaked out of the receiver. "What I wanted to say was, Sophie is perfectly well-No, no, she's just fine. She only came for a visit, to get away from all the business at home- It _is _very stressful, I understand that, but everyone needs a break sometimes Mme. Dubois- I will make sure she pays you back for her train fare-and I'll make sure that happens too." I could tell Tintin was dying to laugh. "I will-yes-thank you-I will-good evening." Tintin put the receiver down gently and burst out laughing. "_Mon Dieu_, your mother could talk for Belgium!" He sat down in his chair and pushed the end of his typewriter along. "Anyway, it's settled."

"Just like that?" I was dumbstruck.

"Just like that. You're going to stay here with me while you recover from Jacques disappearance. Get some respite and "get away from the action"".

I snorted, knowing that a stay with Tintin was never short on action. "She actually agreed to letting me stay with a boy all alone?" I raised an eyebrow. A small smile played on Tintin's lips a he fiddled with the carbon paper.

"Well, I promised her I wouldn't let you stay in a dodgy hotel alone, and since that's the description of most hotels in the main city you going to _have _to stay with me. Besides, your mother trusts me."

"More than she trusts me, it seems!" I exclaimed, mortified that my mother had asked such a thing of my friend. Tintin gave a smile again.

"_Peut-__ê__tre..._ Go and unpack. You can have my bed."

"You don't need to do that!" I assured him. Tintin looked up at me. "I'll be fine on the couch."

"And how impressed do you think your mother would be if she found out I was letting you sleep on my couch? Not very, I think. My bed is yours for as long as you here." Snowy clambered up on the table and Tintin scratched him behind the ears gently.

"Thank you," I murmured. "For all of this." And I left him to his work.

**French Translations: _ma cherie: _my dear**

**_lyc__é__e: _French equivalent of Middle School (somewhat)**

**_coll__é__ge: _French equivalent of High School**

**_Le Vingt__é__me Si__é__cle: _The Twentieth Century, the newspaper Hérge wrote for.**

**_Peut-__ê__tre_: Maybe**

**Please R&R and I'll try to update soon!**


	2. Chapter 2: The Office Secrets

**Hi all! Here's Chapter 2, as promised! I did proof read this one, but if anyone finds any spelling mistakes it'd be much appreciated! Thank to everyone who reviewed so far, they've been very helpful!**

**I won't keep you any longer, please enjoy! **

When I awoke the next morning, Tintin was already up. Snowy, who had been snuggled beside me was just leaving the room. I pushed open the door and found Tintin rushing about the living room, papers flying and ornaments teetering on the edge of sideboards and and mantle pieces.

"Hey, good morning!" He greeted me, spotting me giggling in the doorway.

"Morning!" I replied, watching him fish under the dresser and give a triumphant cry as he emerged with one of his shoes. "Look, about last night, I'm really sorry."

"Think nothing for it. What are friends for?" Tintin collapsed into the basket chair and pulled on his shoe, wresting the other one from Snowy's grasp. "_Arr__ê__t Milou! Tu as un chien ne bon pas!" _He scolded. I smiled, but still felt guilty.

I had awoken in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, a recurring nightmare about finding my brother dead haunting my sleeping hours. Tintin, hearing me sobbing like a maniac, had held me until I stopped hyperventilating and stayed with me the rest of the night in case I re awoke. All I'd been since I'd arrived was a hysterical nuisance, and he was a better friend to me that I deserved.

"Going somewhere?"

"Yeah, work actually. There's an article I need to hand in. I would rather spend some more time on it but it's due in today and it'll upset the editor if I miss the deadline. Again. It's a small wonder he hasn't fired me yet..." Tintin grabbed the column from the typewriter and rolled it into a tube. "If you can get dressed quickly enough we'll have time to grab breakfast on the way."

"Ooh, inviting me out for breakfast," I teased, grabbing my suitcase which was still by the armchair. "Charmed I'm sure."

"It's not a 'will you go out for breakfast with me', it's a 'you have to come out for breakfast because I don't have any food in'. I always eat breakfast out anyway. In fact, I eat most meals out..." He mused.

"Well that's one thing that's going to change if I'm staying here!" I yelled through the door as I changed.

"Great. A woman comes into your life and immediately takes over."

"And the state of this flat needs addressing!"

"Steady on!" Tintin teased, although there was a genuine edge of concern to his voice. I gave a laugh as I exited the room, fixing my hair in a bun before the mirror above the fireplace. Tintin looked me up and down.

"Yellow suits you." He decided as I smoothed the saffron shade skirt across my knees. I looked over at him.

"Look at your tie!" I exclaimed. "Let me fix it."

"What's wrong with it?" Tintin whined, reluctantly joining me at the mirror. Snowy sat at his feet with what I could have sworn was an amused expression.

"It's a mess." I pulled it apart and retired it, Tintin less from happy. "Can you actually do anything for yourself?"

"Write good newspaper articles?"

I snorted. "And that will get you far when you have a wife and children."

"Are you done? Insulting me and fixing my tie, before you ask?" Tintin waved my hand away. I admired my handiwork.

"Yes, I think so. It'll do."

Tintin ruffled my hair. "Sorry for snapping. I get stressed before handing in articles." He slipped on his coat and opened the door, calling Snowy to heel. "_On y va?_"

I took the arm he offered me. "_On y va!_"

Since it was a nice day, Tintin abandoned his usual routine of getting the tram to work, decided to walk. We bought some breakfast on the way, namely a huge Danish pastry the which we ate out of a paper bag as Tintin showed me the sights. The cobbled streets, the squares and fountains were all miles away from the countryside life we'd both grown up with. The only time I had seen so many people gathered together was in church or school, but here people bustled along the streets like swarms of bees, exiting one hive only to enter another. Despite the greyness of the stone, Brussels seemed to have a colour and a vibrancy like no other place on Earth, and I loved it.

It was thus that we arrived at a tall red building on a busy main street. "Le XX_eme _Siécle" was written in huge letters across the width of the building, and a few people were being let in by a large doorman. (And by large I mean tall, not overweight. But he was that too.) He held the door open for us and gave a nod to Tintin.

The inside was beautiful, dark wood and carpeted staircases, with huge windows shedding floods of light upon the multiple hanging chandeliers. People milled ant-like over the hall, worming their way through the doors and to the front of pay queues, clutching their money like starving children would clutch loaves of bread.

"Who knows what that's getting spent on." I thought as a man shuffled past me, greedily rubbing the leaves of paper money together.

"C'mon you, stop gawking." Tintin snapped me out of my musings as he spoke to me from the bottom of a flight of stairs. "We're on the first floor."

Snowy raced to the top before us, barking for us to join him. When we got to the top Tintin banked left, leading me to to a large door at the end of the corridor. "Le Petit Vingtéme" was attached to the door on a bronze plaque, with the editor's name etched underneath.

"I thought you worked for "Le Vingtéme Siécle" ?" I frowned. Tintin gave a me a look.

""Petit" is the Children's section."

"You write for a Children's newspaper?"

"Children need reporters too! Sophie do you even read the paper?"

I was incredulous. Of course I had read the paper, but I had flicked through until I found Tintin's article. I had never noticed the change of heading within the pages.

"It's actually pretty good writing for kids," Tintin mused as he opened the door. "You don't need to use any fancy vocabulary or cover any deep topics. Anything exciting and easy to read and you're set."

"Easy to read? Have you see how much you write each week? And the size of the text is tiny!"

"If I cut it down any further there would be nothing exciting left in it!"

We were interrupted in our mild arguing as Snowy trotted in and gave an excited bark. I looked up. The room was as bustling as the hallway, masses of desks arranged in neat rows by the huge Georgian windows. There was a hum of talking and typewriting filling the air, a buzz that radiated from the heart of the room.

A dark haired woman at the back of the room looked up as we entered.

"Tintin!" She called out.

"Morning all," Tintin greeted them. A chorus of "Hello", "Hi" and "Good morning Tintin" washed over us. A flush of pride covered Tintin's cheeks. He always like it when people acknowledged him: it made him fell happy, wanted.

Snowy bolted to the back of the room, so we followed. In the back row of desks, a lone desk took up the middle. Tintin weaved his way in-between the rows, pulled out the chair for me and bent to unlock a drawer.

I examined the top of Tintin's work space. A motley collection of items gathered dusk along the veneer: a feather, a bottle cap, a postcard tacked down with gum tape- memoirs of his extensive travels. A pair of round glasses sat upside-down by a pot of pencils. I turned them over and put them on, blinking at Tintin's form through the slightly murky glass. Tintin smiled at me and gently removed them from my face.

"Nice to see you back Tintin," The dark haired woman from earlier occupied the desk to my left. "How was Cape Town?"

"It was fine. Ended up in Madagascar for the last couple of weeks actually."

"Madagascar? Wow, was it good?" She looked awed.

"Anyone try to kill you this time?" A blond man at the desk to my right quizzed. Tintin shut the drawer he was looking in and opened another.

"Haha, very funny. You'll find out in due time." He pulled out the rolled up column and waved it temptingly under the girl's nose.

"Is that the article? Tintin, let me have a read!" She made a grab for it but Tintin snatched it away away with a mischievous grin.

"Not yet Jeanne. You need to wait until it's finished. You should know how I work by now." He stuck his tongue out as she pouted.

"You're no fun. Don't tease me."

"You know he never shows anyone his work Jeanne," The blond man reminded her. "He likes it perfect before he subjects it to public viewing."

"Oh, I know! It's just he disappears for a couple of months, comes back with a tan and a suitcase full of mysterious objects and even his own workmates don't know where he's been until he prints the article!"

"I never get a tan." Tintin protested. "I'm ginger, do you know how much sunblock I need to wear to stop me burning? You're just trying to make it sound more exotic," He straightened up and pushed the drawer closed with his foot swiftly. "Sophie, this is Jeanne Morhgan. She writes the children's short stories."

We shook hands. "And this is Marc Fleurs, fellow journalist."

"I mainly concentrate on things here at home, although I wouldn't mind a trip abroad Tin, if you fancied a swap?" The blond man shook my hand gently. Tintin gave a grin.

"Let me think about that one. Thanks for the offer though. Anyone know what mood M. Remis is in?"

"Same as always!" Someone called out. My friend made a face.

"Thanks. You alright sitting here Sophie? Only I may be some time..."

I confirmed I was. Tintin tucked the article under his arm, commanded Snowy to "Stay!" and ventured to another door at the far side of the room. He knocked once, a voice told him "_Entrez_!" and he disappeared into the editor's office.

"So," Jeanne drawled, leaning over from her desk. "Who are you to Tintin? His sister, girlfriend," (Here I protested violently.) "Some girl he picked up in Cape Town?"

"No, none of the above!" I waved my hands, embarrassed. "We're old friends."

Jeanne's eyes widened. "Say- Marc, you don't think maybe-"

"I don't know. Hey, Sophie wasn't it? Do you know who the girl in the photograph is?"

"What phot-" I ran my eyes over the desk until I lighted upon what they were talking about.

To the right of the typewriter sat a silver framed, black and white picture. A small laugh escaped me as I picked it up.

We were in tennis whites, Tintin and I, but Jacques was with us too. He had his arm around Tintin's shoulder and Tintin had his arm around my waist and we were all smiling. I couldn't speak for a moment, the memories of that last happy day returning to me, the last day we were truly together, because that picture was taken the day Tintin told us he was leaving. It was funny: the camera that had documented all of Tintin's amazing adventures had also captured the last time I saw Jacques smile.

"Yeah. That's me a few years ago."

Silence descended on the office like a curse, the only sound being Tintin's oblivious chatter bleeding through the editor's door. A moment later and everyone was flocking to me, pulling up chairs and shuffling aside work to accommodate sitting space on desks.

"So, you must know everything about him then?" Jeanne clapped her hands with glee. Snowy gave a whine and curled himself in my lap, his snout under his paws.

"I guess I know a great deal about him." I admitted, feeling slightly unnerved by the eager faces enclosing me.

"Ok,ok!" Marc waved his hand to calm the strangely wild staff. "Firstly and most importantly: How old is he?"

"18 currently," I said, surprised I didn't know. The staff burst into a roar of laughter which was quickly suppressed with hushed voices and giggles.

"The lying little beggar," Marc smirked. "I knew he wasn't in his twenties!"

"He told us he was 18 when he first arrived. No-one believed him, he's got too much of a baby face, but he would never admit it." Jeanne explained.

"But that must've meant he was 15 when he joined, right?" Someone asked. I nodded. A few whistled.

"Brave kid. Rubbish liar, but good on him." Marc laughed.

"Next question!" Jeanne squished up next to me. "Is Tintin his real name? Only he never signs any articles with a last name so we don't know if it's a _nom-de-plume _or..."

I laughed. "No, Tintin is his actual name."

It was one of the first things I had asked too, after we first arranged to play tennis together. The story he had always told me was this: When his parents were thinking of names for him, his father had suggested Augustine, to which his mother had protested "Oh no! Then it will be shortened to Tintin!" It had thence become his nickname, and since no other suitable names arose, Tintin was written into his birth certificate.

"Is that true?" Marc raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, I promise! At least, that's what he told me..."

Hands raised all around me, begging for the chance to ask the next question. I suddenly felt very like I was in a press conference as requests for information flew thick and fast.

Did he have a girlfriend? (With a flat in that state, unlikely.)

What was his favourite food? (He had always requested bacon for breakfast at our house, but I wasn't sure if this counted. However, I knew he had a fondness for pastries...)

Did he have parents? (Well he would be alive if he didn't... But yes, _they_ were alive.)

Did he own any pairs of trousers besides plus-fours? (This I couldn't answer honestly.)

It wasn't long before every scrap of information I had on Tintin had been squeezed out of me; I felt as if I'd gone through a mangle.

Just as I was about to be forced into answering more embarrassing questions, (which I won't care to mention) the door to the editor's room opened.

"Yes M. Remis, I'll get that done right away. _Merci_," Tintin's voice flowed through the open doorway.

I have never seen anyone move as fast as the staff did. Almost as soon as Tintin spoke, the crowd around me dispersed, chairs returned to desks, fingers to typewriters and a hush descended. I was astounded, but it was obvious that they were practised in the art of shirking work and extreme gossiping.

Tintin glanced over the room with a frown. Not a head moved. He gave a quick nod to the mysterious editor in his room and quietly closed the door.

"He'll catch you all one day, y'know," He addressed the room. "Been joining in the office gossip?" He smiled at me.

"Not so much joining in as providing it." Jeanne sniggered. Tintin stiffened.

"We know who the girl is." Marc put in. Tintin put his head in his hands.

"_Mon Dieu! _I should never have left you here alone!" He moaned.

"The office secret is out! Sorry," Marc patted his shoulder.

"I was hoping it'd be a _little _more romantic, but I guess separated childhood sweethearts will do." Jeanne sighed deeply.

"Who said we got separated?" Tintin demanded.

"Who said we were sweethearts?" I pointed out.

"But look at the way he's holding you!" Jeanne picked up the frame and turned it to face us. Tintin coloured dramatically, snatched it from her and put it almost protectively on the desk top again.

"Stop touching my stuff, _si-__vous__ plait! _You're letting your imagination run away with you Morhgan!"

"She's a writer, what do you expect when you hide the identity of a mysterious girl?" Marc handed a sheet to a girl who was collecting articled to go to print for the next day.

"I didn't expect the rest of the staff to join in!" Tintin scribbled some changes to his sheets with a stub of pencil and handed it to the girl, waving a finger at her as she started reading it. She smiled as set about gathering up other works. "Well, now that's over with, you ready to go?" He asked me.

"Not staying Tintin?"

"No. Got some other work to do," He extended a hand to he and I stood, knocking Snowy (who I'd forgotten had fallen asleep on my knees) to the floor. He wailed pathetically and grovelled at Tintin's feet, throwing me very human dirty looks. Tintin nudged him with his shoe. "Buck up you, stop being silly." He put his pencil back in the pot.

I shook Marc and Jeanne's hands again as we said goodbye. "Come back some time. You can tell us more about Tintin."

Tintin rolled his eyes, said goodbye and took his leave. After collecting his pay for the "Tintin in Cape Town" article, Tintin joined me in the main doorway and we stepped out into the sunlight.

"So_, _you have questions." Tintin said, sheltering his eyes from the sun. "Fire away."

"Why didn't you tell them who the girl in the picture was? Who I was, I mean."

"Should I have?"

"I guess you didn't have to put it out there, but you you could have told them when they asked!" I argued, running to catch up with him as he strode to the right. "What are you trying to suggest Tintin?"

My friend turned to look at me. "Do you want the honest answer?"

I suddenly felt uneasy. "Well, I don't want the _dishonest _answer."

Tintin smiled warmly. "That's just like you. Alright, I'll tell you. First of all, that photograph was one of the few private things that I still owned. Let me finish," He held up his hand as I moved to speak. He held out his arm again, I slipped mine through it and we proceeded to walk through the streets, Snowy trotting between our feet.

"The difficult thing about being a journalist is you need to express opinion, and you have to express a lot of it. Then you stick it in an article and everyone in Belgium reads it. Or in my case, nearly everyone in the world reads it," He paused as we let a car pass and we crossed the road, meandering away from the main street and down into the heart of Brussels.

"So many people read my articles, read my opinions and read my entire life. Even when I'm having a quiet moment to myself or playing with Snowy or whatever it is, I have to document it. And since my "Adventures" have become more popular, I have to tell my readers more, take more pictures, write my daily routine- Do you see where I'm going with this?"

"Sort of..."

Tintin sighed and sank onto a step, one of a huge flight that stretched to the main street above. Snowy bounded up the steps into a patch of sunshine and stretched out, soaking up the warmth from the sun drenched stones. Tintin patted the space next to his and shifted to the side a little to let me join him.

"I found that photo just after I came back from the Congo. It was on the same reel as some of my Russian photos and had gotten developed at the same time. Loads of the staff hand pictures of family and stuff so I didn't think it's be weird if I..." Tintin leant his head back on the steps. "Anyway, as soon as I brought it out, everyone was asking who you were. There's a girl in the photo! She _must _be someone special! And I was just so-_annoyed- _that they wanted to know _more _about me, that I wasn't allowed _one _thing to myself- that I refused to tell them who you were."

He looked at me, gauging my reaction.

"Don't you think they were maybe just trying to make conversation, like normal people do?" I finally found my voice. Tintin gave me a sheepish grin.

"When have I ever been normal? Don't get like that with me, I didn't consider telling them afterwards, but it was quite funny watching them guess who you were."

Apparently they had had competitions to see who could make up the best story about me. I had been everything from the gardener's daughter, to his sister, to the Crown Princess.

Jeanne's story was the most extravagant. Her theory was that we'd fallen in love, had a whirlwind romance, Tintin had married me to "save me from disgrace" and I had died tragically in childbirth. It was so ridiculous that I found myself grinning. It was unbelievable that someone would bother to come up with something so complicated!

Suddenly the two of us were laughing, the sunlight warming our faces as we flopped against the steps. People gave us strange looks as they passed but we couldn't care less, because in that moment it was just the two of us and I was feeling truly happy for the first time since Jacques went missing.

I was practically trying with mirth when Tintin put his hands on my knees.

"Do you understand now?"

I nodded, wiping the tears from my eyes. "I understand _you_. What I don't get is your workmates!"

"I don't think we'll ever understand them," Tintin glanced at his watch. "Wow, half eleven already!" What do you say to getting a mid morning snack and we can talk about what to do next."

"Do next?"

"What steps to take in finding Jacques, of course."

I suddenly felt a twisting pain in my gut. Today would mark a month since my brother disappeared and I couldn't help but think we had very little time.

"Of course." I replied. Tintin woke Snowy from his dog nap and we went to find the nearest café, where our plan of action would begin.

**French Translations: _Arr__ê__t Milou! Tu as un chien ne bon pas!_: Stop Snowy! You are a bad dog! (I know Milou and Snowy don't translate directly, but w/e. Also I'm not sure how pure a translation this is, I just put together all that I've learnt in GCSE French so far...)**

**_On y va?/On y va!_: Shall we go/ let's go!**

**Le Petit Vingtéme: The Little Twentieth (Children's section of the paper Hérge wrote for.)**

**_Entrez: _Enter**

**_nom-de-plume_: Pen name/ pseudonym**

**_Merci_: Thank you**

**_Si- vous plait_: Please/ if you please**

**Thanks for reading so far, please R&R! I've decided that I'm going to update fortnightly now. I'll take a week to write it on paper and then a week to type it. There's only so much I can do in the middle of exams! Red x **


	3. Chapter 3:Chez moi

**Hey all! I apologise for the lateness of this chapter. I only started typing it on Wednesday and it wasn't even finished writing it on paper. I won't make excuses, it was bad of me. I'm away in London this weekend so I should get some good writing done on the train, and Chapter 4 should be done on time. (To PG 2011, I'm also doing Eddie and Charlie chapter 1 this weekend too!)**

**I won't keep you any longer, enjoy!**

Tintin was right. He was right, but I didn't like it. I rarely liked it when someone else was right but this time was especially annoying.

"Don't do this to me Tintin," I warned as he paid a bored looking ticket seller in the main Brussels train station.

"Sophie, you've been away from home for four days. Why do you dread returning so much? _Moi, _I haven't been home since- yes, must be before Christmas. I haven't been home since before Christmas, how to you think I feel?"

"I don't want to go home!" I wailed. Tintin gave me a despairing look.

"Stop being so childish! Snowy _no_," He reprimanded the little terrier as he sniffed at a forgotten sandwich under a bench. Snowy gave a whine of disdain and joined me in trailing through the humming epicentre of the train terminal.

"We need to go back to your house. That's where Jacques went at weekends so there might be something to help us in our search for him. Please try to keep up!" He grabbed my hand and pulled me away from a large family with a great many bags who were steaming blindly across platform 5. He suddenly stopped and put his hands on my shoulders. "Is there something else happening at home besides Jacques vanishing? Is that why you don't want to go back?"

"No! No, nothing like that," I protested.

"Don't tell me it's something petty like your mother put the wrong fillings in your sandwiches?"

"Tintin, nothing is going on at home! It's just," I sighed. "I know my mother and father are going to be really angry at me and I just don't want to be nagged any more. They've been really stressed about Jacques and I know this going to have wound them up."

Tintin squeezed my shoulders. "Listen, don't worry. I'll sort out your parents, alright?"

"_Easier said than done," _I thought drily.

"Come on, lets hurry or we'll miss our train."

My home was situated in the Belgian countryside, a couple of hours out of Brussels. Unfortunately the nearest train station stopped a few miles short of being anywhere our estate and I was really hoping Tintin wasn't going to make us walk. That was the kind of thing he would have done.

After we managed to sneak Snowy onto the train under Tintin's trench coat, we managed to procure a compartment all to ourselves. As soon as we got in, Tintin sat down, pulled the collar of his mac about his ears and went to sleep. I didn't complain: Tintin had been up late on the phone to his editor, who had called to ask if Tintin would be in the office tomorrow. He was none to please to find his star reporter asking for more leave from work, which resulted in a very long "conversation". Tintin promised him an story in return for 3 months away, which in my opinion wasn't very long, but Tintin assured me this was M. Remis being generous.

Bored with watching the scenery I knew so well, I turned my attention to Tintin, his head leant against the window and small patches of condensation forming and dying as his breath hit the glass. Sleep apparently makes everyone look younger, but being so young himself, slumber made Tintin look positively babyish. Not in a bad way though.

I have many habits, (not all of them as strange,) but one is a habit of watching people sleep. When people sleep, they can't hide anything. They are open to interpretation, at least in my opinion.

My interpretation of Tintin was now was that he was vulnerable. His ever cheerful and optimistic veneer had melted away, replaced by a quiet peace. However his face held a small frown, a tiny expression of pain. To me, that could only mean he was worried.

After a moment, I reached inside my jacket and pulled out a small notebook. I had always loved to write but admittedly Tintin's exploits had inspired me to journalism. It was more of a hobby for now, but maybe one day it would develop into something more.

If my parents had anything to do with it, I would study something intellectual and not utilise it by by getting married and producing lots of grandchildren. Not that that wasn't on my agenda for later life, but... not until I had found the right person.

Absent mindedly jotting all this down, my gaze made its way back to my sleeping companion, who had shifted slightly in his seat. Snowy had curled up next to him also, his head resting snugly in his master's lap. In my mind's eye, I could imagine the day Tintin went to buy him, pressed up against the window of the pet shop, picking up and putting down all the puppies until he found the one he liked best. And of course the one who liked him best too.

"_Could've been slightly more inventive with the name though," _I muttered quietly, laughing to myself. Although looking at it now, I don't think Snowy could be anything other than Snowy.

The familiar roofs of the village train station rolled into view and I screwed the top of my pen on. We'd been travelling for two hours, and we'd finally arrived. I pulled my suitcase down from the rack above Tintin's head, teetered and tripped as the train stopped jauntily. My suitcase dropped in my hands and came down abruptly on Tintin's crown, waking him. I was about to laugh before I saw the the handgun butt poking out of Tintin's pocket, his hand finding it quickly and clasping the trigger firmly. My heart leapt and I backed into my seat, unable to more my horrified gaze. Seeing who had "hit" him, Tintin relaxed and the black mass of death disappeared from sight.

"We're here," I informed him him, and bolted from the carriage.

Was this what it would be like? Always scared for our lives, never finding a moment's peace? Was it always to be like another of Tintin's grand adventures, where shadowy assailants lurked with bottles of chemicals, and being tied up was as frequent as having a cooked dinner? I suddenly felt as if I'd made a mistake. Maybe I should have let the police continue with their jobs. After all, they were the professionals, Tintin- well, Tintin was just a kid, _I _was just a kid. What could we do?

But then again, the police hadn't _promised _to find Jacques. Tintin had.

"I'm sorry," Tintin had followed me out onto the platform. It was a picture postcard place, with leafy trees dripping summer buds across the red brick station. A little hole-in-the-wall café sold coffees to passengers, and local school kids leapt onto trains that took them to their families. I turned back to Tintin.

"It was instinct," He continued. "I've had so many people try to kill me Sophie, I need to be prepared. I didn't mean to upset you."

"No, no it was just me being silly," I assured him. "You just... surprised me, that's all."

"Ok," Tintin relaxed. "How about I take that suitcase before you do someone else some damage?"

"You're quite the gentleman Tintin," I smiled.

"I try to be," He said seriously. I prodded my finger on his nose sharply and he jumped at me, catching me around the waist as I attempted to run away. "However, I make exceptions for for little girls who deserve to be dumped in the river at first opportunity!"

"No no no no! Tintin let go! LET GO, oh my gosh!" I squealed as he swept his arms under my legs and tossed me sideways into a princess carry. I waved my legs back and forth as Snowy pranced between us, barking loudly. I was shouting so nosily that the station master had to come over.

"Is this young man bothering you miss?" He asked gravely. Tintin and I both went very red and and Snowy his himself behind Tintin's legs.

"No, not at all, I mean, not really-put me down!" I hissed. Tintin lightly put me on _terra firma, _then cried out joyously.

"Hello Hérver! I haven't seen you in a while!"

"Bless my soul, if it isn't Mr Tintin!" The station master shook Tintin's hand warmly, his whole demeanour changed. "This young man used to wave to me every morning he did, before he went to school. It was the 8:15 train, I remember," Hérver informed me, as if I was just a random passer by. "Waved every morning, him and that poor Dubois boy. You heard about him didn't you?"

"Yes, I did, and this is his sister, Sophie."

"How d'you do ma'am? I read that article of yours this morning Mr Tintin, the one from Cape Town."

"Did you now?"

"I did, and I says to my wife, I says "Lucile! Look at this! This boy used to wave to me every morning and look at him now! Being tied up and beaten to a pulp!" He said it almost proudly. I looked up sharply and Tintin smothered a smile.

"I'm glad the story interests you."

"Interests me? Why all of it is quite fascinating! How's that gun shot wound holding up? Grazed your ribs, didn't it?"

"Mmm, yes. It's healing nicely, thank you. Sir, we really must be going actually, we've got a lot to-"

"Oh but of course!" Hérver slapped his hands together. "Let me call you a cab. No no, I insist!"

"He insists Tintin," I nudged him encouragingly. Tintin raised his eyebrows at me and said no more.

Despite it being a small village, some savvy person had decided that it was in need of a taxi service. Of course they were completely correct (Lazy village plus retired rich people equals instant business) and they soon branched out into covering passage into other villages. Thankfully my estate was included in their radius, so we could pretty much get a taxi to our door.

Tintin, however didn't want to waste any more money than was necessary, and considering he'd had to pay extra to accommodate Snowy, he got us dropped off in the next village. (Hérver, a kind man though he was, had only been as kind as to _call _us a taxi, not to _pay _for it also.)

It wasn't a particularly long walk home, and it was up a rather pretty wooded path, and I was grateful for the opportunity to stretch my legs. Tintin found a stick and threw it absent mindedly for Snowy. He stopped to wait for me as I trailed reluctantly ever closer to my impending doom.

"Jacques and I used to part ways here. We'd get off the train, grab our bikes from the rack and cycle back. Then I'd go right and Jacques would go left," He informed me. "We met here in the mornings too. I was always late. Glad to say I'm getting better with my punctuality." He paused, looking wistfully down the path that lead to his home. I was reminded of what he had said earlier, that he hadn't seen his parents since "before last Christmas.". It was now the middle of June; Tintin had been away a long time.

"Hm! Anyway, let's go. Snowy!" Tintin emerged from within his own thoughts and seemed to force himself down the left-winding path. I felt a pang of guilt hit me, but I pushed it aside.

Very soon we found ourselves in the turning of my driveway. Out from the clustered path of trees, the tall, square shape of my family estate loomed ahead of us behind tall iron gates. The gates were purely for show, there were no walls on either side of them, they just stood alone, lording over the grey gravel path that carpeted the way to the front door.

The gardener met us as we reached the said door, eyeing Snowy nervously as he began sniffing at the flower beds.

"Nice to see you back Miss Dubois," He touched the edge of his cap lightly in my direction.

"Nice to be back," I said almost automatically, but of course it was a lie. It didn't want to be back at all.

"Your father is away on business Miss, but your mother is still here. She was in the drawing room last I saw her." The gardener really wasn't paying me much attention, his eyes following Snowy as the terrier trotted teasingly around the petunias. I inhaled sharply. Home without Father _or _Jacques? Living hell.

"Thank you," I said, and proceeded to make my way up the steps to the door, but the gardener followed me.

"Wait Miss! I'll have to let you in, the door's locked."

"Locked? At this time of day? Whatever for?"

"Your family is getting a little paranoid, pardon me for saying so. With good reason though. First Master Jacques goes missing, then you run off -pardon me again Miss- and now all these things have gone missing from your father's office..." The gardener fiddled with his keys.

"What's disappeared from Father's office?" I asked, shooting Tintin a glance. He met it with a worried frown.

"Oh, documents and the like. I'm afraid I don't know much about it, but they must've been important because the police were here again. Tramping through my flowerbeds..." He clucked his tongue. "Here we go Miss. I'm afraid I have to lock the door behind you again. I've had my orders." He pulled open the door for us. Tintin and I stepped in, Snowy just fitting in before the sunlight disappeared and the door clicked ominously behind us.

It was dark inside: All the blinds were drawn. The house felt like something out of a horror film. I immediately made my way to the drawing room.

"Mother?" I put my head around the door. My mother lay sprawled across a sofa, her head in her hands and her dark perm reflecting the light from a single lamp.

"You certainly know how to pick your moments darling. In running off and returning." She said without even looking up.

"Yes, nice to see you too," I returned drily, shutting the door behind me. "Glad to hear you were worried about me."

"Worried about you?" My mother looked up sharply. In the dark room, the lighting made her look very mysterious and glamorous, a comparison to a vampire being the first (unfortunate) thing to spring to my mind. "I was hysterical! Such a moment to select! How could you run away like that Sophie? Your brother could be dead-"

"Don't talk like that,"

"-And then I lost you... You didn't even leave a note. I do so worry about you," Her voice took on a softer tone. "And when you went away like that, my nerves-"

"Your nerves!" I scoffed. "It's always your nerves Mother. Well I tell you what, you're getting on my nerves now! How could you make Tintin promise all this stuff, like not letting me stay somewhere alone? Don't you think I can look after myself? It was highly embarrassing!"

"And you don't think it was embarrassing for me? Now you've dragged an unprofessional little boy into this and you're just going to make a mess of things. You should leave all this business to the police."

My thoughts from earlier made themselves known in my head, but I quickly banished them. "The police don't know what they're doing, do _don't _tell me they do. But Tintin does, he's promised we'll find Jacques, so when we bring him home, you'll see I was right. I have better judgement than you think Mother. I'm not a little girl any more, so don't tell me what to do."

My mother's eyes flared and she rose masterfully from the couch. I suddenly felt very small, like I really was just a little girl again, being told off for some misdeed.

"How dare you? How dare you be so rude to me! You and your precious little Tintin- You and Jacques are as bad as each other. I've done more for you than you can imagine my girl, so don't be so ungrateful. Be thankful I don't force you to stay at home now you're back."

This surprised me. I had had an entire argument lined up in my head for how I was an independent woman, and how I could go out alone now and do what ever I wanted. It seemed however that it was not needed, and I was stumped. Lost for words, I moved back to the door.

"You can't force me to do anything Mother. One day you'll see that." It was a weak ending, but it seemed to strike a chord with my mother, who turned away.

I left the room. I tipped my head back to stop the hot tears from falling and flapped my hands at my face in an attempt to calm myself. It's fair to say my mother and I didn't get on well.

I suddenly realised I was alone in the hall. Running through my mind, I recounted that Tintin hadn't come into the drawing room with me. I paused, looking about the hall I knew so well, at the pictures on the wall with so many absent faces, before calling out hesitantly.

"Tintin?"

"Upstairs," His voice sounded from up the staircase. Relieved, I mounted the stairs onto the first landing. The door to Jacques' room was open. I took a deep breath and went it.

Jacques' room, like mine, overlooked the garden. The blue of his baby-hood had been thinly painted over with a was of white paint. Posters and pictures watched me as I entered. It was all just the same as it had been, nothing had been touched or moved. It was like he'd never left.

Tintin was sat cross-legged on the floor in front of Jacques' chest of drawers, his duster jacket hanging over a chair. Snowy looked up as I came in, but Tintin didn't, absorbed in whatever he was doing.

"I thought I'd leave you and your mother alone for a bit," He announced finally after I'd stood behind him in silence for some minutes. "You're too hard on her, you know. I'd give her a chance if I were you."

"If you were me, you'd understand my situation." I retaliated. Tintin nodded slowly.

"Mhm. _Bien s__û__r_."

"Tintin what are you doing?" I asked, getting down on my knees beside him.

"Well Sophie, I'm searching your brother's sock drawer." Was the reply, and I watched in disbelief as Tintin sat elbow deep in rolled up ankle socks.

"Any reason you're searching my brother's sock drawer?"

"Actually yes," Tintin twisted his shoulder and his face in concentration. "If someone has something to hide, the first place they put it is always somewhere private like their sock drawer. I'm think Jacques might have something to hide."

"Wouldn't it more likely be in his underwear drawer?" I frowned. Tintin closed his eyes and sighed.

"Alright, that's actually what I meant, but I didn't want to embarrass you."

I burst out laughing. Tintin smirked. "However I do know for a fact that Jacques has a secret compartment in his _sock _drawer."

I was stunned. "He does? How do you know that?"

"I helped him make it actually. We must've been about 13. Read too many spy books I suppose. We used to hide all sorts of things in it. It's pretty crude really, but it fulfils its purpose- ahah!" Tintin's hand clicked round and the entire back of the bottom drawer came away in his hand. He passed it to me and pressed his face forward in anticipation. "Now, what have we here..." He reached in and came back a moment later, clutching a roll of papers in his fist. He swept his hand along the back again and then shuffled on his knees to face me. "That's it."

"What are these?" I indicated to the papers. Tintin unrolled them carefully and raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Good heavens! I wasn't expecting that!"

"What is it..." I said slowly, fearing the worst of my teenage brother. Tintin smoothed the papers out across the blue carpet.

"Look!"

The papers were upside down but I could immediately tell what they were. "Father's documents!"

It may be well to mention now my father's line of business. My family is one of watchmakers, Dubois and Sons, set up by my great great grandfather in the early 1800s. We only have one shop, in Brugge, the one Jacques was working in, but the business is well know and well reputed. (it success allowed my family to purchase this house) What Tintin had unearthed in Jacques' secret compartment were blueprints for a pocket watch, one of a range that my father and his partners produced in quantity. I turned them around and examined the orthographic drafts carefully.

"Why on earth would Jacques have these... But the gardener said they'd only just come missing! That means-"

"I wouldn't get your hopes up _cherie_," Tintin said grimly. "He said your Father had only just _discovered_ they'd gone missing. I rather think Jacques took them before he himself vanished."

"Ugh," I couldn't conceal my disappointment. "But why? Why would he take them?"

"Is your Father's office locked normally?" Tintin sat back on his heels thoughtfully, letting Snowy sniff at them curiously.

"No, never, we go in and out all the time. He locks his blueprint drawers at night, but we know where he keeps the keys. He lets us take the old ones out and look at them sometimes."

"I see..." Tintin leant his chin on his fist, muttering something quietly to himself. Snowy sneezed and abandoned his scanning of the papers with a miffed expression. "I think I'd like to hold onto these just now, if you don't mind Sophie. And let's not tell your father, at least, not yet."

"Oh, alright." I was curious, but didn't press my friend. I trusted his judgement.

Deciding there was no more he could glean from Jacques' room, we left.

"I'm not sure there is anything else we can do here," Tintin mused as we walked down the stairs. "I checked your father's office before I came upstairs but it was locked."

"Oh yes, he always locks it when he goes away." I remembered. "So what now?"

"We'll think about that in a moment. I'm just going to go in and pay my respect to your mother."

"You make it sound like she's dead." _Might as well be, _I murmured privately to myself.

"You know what I mean. Take Snowy out for a bit, I won't be long."

Take Snowy out I did, and stood right underneath the conveniently placed drawing room window. I'd missed the beginning of the conversation, but I managed to catch some of their quiet speech.

"-assure you. If there's any chance of danger, I'll be sure to send her right home."

(_Traitor _I hissed to myself.)

"It's not that I'm worried about," My mother said in a low voice. "I'm just frightened she'll do something silly. She does so look up to you, you know, and all these grand adventures have put ideas in her head." My mother always sounded much more... motherly when talking to Tintin. Their telephone conversation proved as much.

"I rather thought something like that may be the case," Tintin said after a moment of reflection. "But I don't think it's entirely to blame. Sophie is adventurous by nature, you have to realise that."

"I do. I realised it a long time ago, and I've been trying to curb it ever since! It not right for young girls to go gallivanting off like this!"

"Much as I'm incline to say that the fairer sex shouldn't be exposed to certain things," Tintin continued. (_Chauvinist_) "It's also not right to suppress her dreams. Sophie will not always want to be doing such things as this, but she's a teenager. She needs her freedom, to try new things, spread her wings and find her place. I speak from experience here, as a teenager myself."

My mother was silent for a while. "Well... Just promise me something."

"Anything _madame_."

"Bring her home in one piece. Bring them both home. I couldn't bear to lose them."

"I intend to, Mme. Dubois."

"And be careful."

My listening was interrupted by a shout from the gardener, and a smug looking Snowy as he trotted past me, his paws covered in mud. Tintin stepped out onto the path, having excused himself from my mother's presence and gave Snowy a stern look.

"You miserable little animal. You're nothing but trouble."

Snowy sat on his haunches and gave a wide-eyed look at his master. Tintin's face folded. "Don't give me the eyes. You know I can't resist it."

Snowy shuffled forward a little and gave an endearing whine. Tintin sighed and bent to ruffle the terrier's fur. "What am I going to do with you, eh? Speaking of which Sophie, I've been thinking about what _we _should do. I think the best move would be to go to Brugge and see Jacques' flat. That's where he stayed during the week right? What do you say?"

"Let's go see your parents."

Tintin stopped. "That's sweet of you to suggest but I really think, considering the situation..."

"It's the best move." I turned to face him. "It the middle of the afternoon now. It'll take us an hour to get back to the train station, and then there isn't a train going directly from there to Brugge. We'd have to get a train back into Brussels then find another one into Brugge if we wanted to get there tonight, but which time it'll be really late, and the watch shop will be shut, so we'll get nothing done. If we go to your parents house, we can stay the night and then make our way to Brugge tomorrow."

"Well, it does sound quite plausible..." Tintin mused.

"Of course it does. And I know how much you want to see them." I added. Tintin gave a childish grin.

"You don't mind?" I shook my head. Tintin's grin widened. "Since you've pledged the case so well, I think a visit to _chez moi _might be in order." He rose to feet, checked his watch and pressed his hands together. "If we go now we might make it in time for tea!"

**French Translations**

**_Bien s__û__r: _Of Course**

**_Madame_: Madam/Mrs**

**_Chez moi_: My house/home**

**Enjoy it? Say, I was thinking. What would you guys say to reviewer incentives/ prizes? Like, you review and I send you a link to an extra mini chapter? Maybe some backstory things? Tell me what you thing, and I'll see you in Chapter 4! **


	4. Chapter 4: Chez lui

**Oh hai! *hides from raging reviewers* Ok ok so it's been a while! 8 months actually. Well- Ok I won't make excuses, I didn't upload Chapter 4 when I said I would. But just to warn you, I actually lost the file just before I was going to upload this chapter so I had to type it all up again and I was very infuriated!**

**Anyhow, please enjoy, I'll try to write more regularly now! (I know you've all been excited because- IT'S TINTIN'S PARENTS!)**

CHAPTER 4

Tintin had been on a high ever since we'd reached the cross roads. It wasn't surprising; considering he hadn't seen his parents in over six months, he could be forgiven for being a little more than excited. Even Snowy seemed excited.

Tintin's house was similar to ours, only more rectangular and open in shape. There were no gates or gravel, no show about his family. Much as it was large, it was simple too.

Soon we made it to the front door. Tintin bounded up the steps, rang the door bell and gestured quickly to me to join him. We waited in anticipation and the sound of lock sliding back reached our ears. Tintin leant against the railings and made some pretence of gazing at his watch as the door swung open.

"Hello-oh! Tintin!"

"Hello Mama," said Tintin, feigning casual interest.

Tintin had inherited his mother's looks. Geraldine (as was her name) was the same age as my mother but looked far younger, with curls of red hair arranged softly over her shoulders and wide blue eyes like her son. She had an altogether lighter and more motherly air than mine, and Tintin obviously adored her

"Tintin!" She lunged at him and gathered him into a warm hug.

"Urk!" Tintin chocked. He put a hand on her back and patted it briefly. "Good to see you too."

"What are you doing here?" She smiled in an almost excited fashion.

"Passing visit really. I'm actually helping Sophie out."

Geraldine noticed me and promptly hugged me too. "Oh, my dear girl. I heard about your brother. I'm so very sorry."

"It's alright. Thank you. But Tintin's going to help me find him."

Geraldine regarded her son firmly. "I hope you're not going to get into more trouble my boy. Your father and I were reading your article this morning, I nearly had a heart attack!"

"Can- we come in?" Tintin gestured to the hallway and stepped past her.

"What have I told you about climbing without guy ropes?" She continued.

"Many things," Tintin smiled, holding his hands out for my coat.

"And you shouldn't accept meat without knowing where it's come from!"

"It came from a goat Mother."

"Oh, you brought the dog." She added as Snowy slunk into the hall.

"O- Of course I brought _the dog_! Mama isn't fond of animals," He explained to me. Geraldine exhaled sharply.

"Well. At least you're safe." She kissed his cheek. Tintin's face softened and he returned the gesture.

"Exactly."

"How about I make some tea?" Geraldine suggested.

"That'd be a good idea? _Soit dit en passant, où est Papa?"_

"_Voici, juste un moment._" A voice sounded from up the stairs, and in a moment, a dark haired individual appeared at the top of the stairs. "I thought I heard my son speaking."

Tintin bounded to meet him and shook his hand firmly. Marc was a quiet man, dark in hair and eyes. He didn't talk excessively, at least not in the times I'd met him, and when he did, it was slowly, calmly and without much excitement. I wasn't sure of what his job was, but it must've been something of importance to own a house as large as this. It was apparent however, that Tintin had inherited his chivalrous side from his father, a fact that became more obvious as Marc took both my hands and kissed me on both cheeks. Tintin rolled his eyes as I went red.

"Don't embarrass her Papa."

"Only acting as I should." was the quiet reply.

"Papa has this theory about how men should act around women. He's been lecturing me about it ever since I started planning to move out." Tintin sounded annoyed, but was smiling mischievously. Marc knelt down to Snowy, who was sat at Tintin's feet, and offered his hand.

"And how are you, _petit chien_?"

Snowy put his paw in Marc's upturned palm in answer. Tintin laughed and I cooed. Marc ruffled Snowy's fur, then attempted the same gesture to his son, who flapped is hands away.

"No-one touches the hair except me!" He said firmly, putting his own hands protectively over his quiff of ginger. Marc made a face.

"I really don't approve of the way you style it."

"I've _told _you Papa, it doesn't flatten! I've tried combing it, but it's stuck. It's Russia's fault." He protested. Marc raised and eyebrow.

"And I think you're being cheeky."

"I'm not!" Tintin's expression was priceless. "You have little faith in me Father." He crossed his arms with a pout. Marc was about to speak when Geraldine appeared around the doorway.

"That's the tea ready! Are you two staying for dinner?"

"Eh-" Tintin glanced at me.

"We were wondering if we could stay the night. It's a bit late to get back to Brussels." I explained.

Geraldine was obviously trying hard to contain her delight at having her son around for a bit longer. "I'm sure that can be arranged. Sophie, would you be alright with the Yellow Room?"

When I awoke the next morning, I could hear a piano playing.

The guest room, or the "Yellow Room" was aptly named. As the morning sun rose and reached the curtains, a warm glow filled the room, adding a golden glow to lemon shade of walls. I lay for some moments in the comfortable bed, savouring the warmth and security that I knew I wouldn't feel for some months. From what I'd read, Tintin's adventures didn't often include 5-star hotels.

Then I went to investigate.

It didn't take long to find the source of the music. Padding the halls in a borrowed house coat and slippers, I discovered the open door of the music room. I paused in the doorway, listening to the slow, soft music being produced by the piano keys.

When it eventually finished, I clapped enthusiastically.

"Bravo!" I teased, then stopped in horror when, not Tintin's head (as I'd expected) appeared, but his father's.

"Why, thank you Miss Dubois."

"I'm sorry sir!" I gushed. "I thought you were Tintin!"

Marc lowered his head and smiled. "Tintin would like to think he's at this level, but truth is, he doesn't practice enough."

"I rather think he doesn't have enough time," I pointed out.

"Rather," Marc chuckled. "Do you play, Miss Dubois?"

"I'm afraid not."

"But you recognise the tune?"

I was surprised. "Yes, but-"

"You were humming," Marc closed the top of the piano. I blushed and he picked up the sheet music from the stand.

It's from _"__La fille mal gardée__"_, a ballet that I am particularly fond of. Maybe, if you changed the _fille _to _fils, _it'd suit my position better, _non_?" He smiled at me wistfully. I suddenly felt a pang of guilt.

"Sir, I'm really sorry, I shouldn't have dragged Tintin into all of this. I- I just thought that-"

"Miss Dubois," Marc turned to the window, letting the sun fall onto his serious face. "Tintin has changed quite a bit from when he lived at home. He's not a little boy, playing adventure games with your brother in the woods. He's grown up, and, surprisingly, has gained a bit of sensibility. I've seen, or at least read, what he can do. And if anyone was going to help you, I would recommend Tintin in a moment."

"Sir-"

"Just take care. Tintin still retains a habit of rushing into things without thinking. He's probably said he'll look out for you, but promise me one thing." Marc's dark head turned to look at me, as I felt a swell of pride rush up.

"Anything sir."

"Bring him home in one piece."

And that was when the brick went through the window.

"TINTIN!" I screamed as Marc thudded to the floor, droplets of glass and music sheets raining throughout the room. I clutched the door frame in terror and screamed at the top of my lungs until Tintin was beside me.

"Sophie what- Papa!" Tintin's voice was almost as terrified as mine as he saw the pandemonium in the music room. He was at his father's side in a moment. Snowy looked up at me and pressed his nose into my leg before whining at Tintin's side.

"Where is my mother, why- Milou, _Maman est dans la cave, aller la chercher! Vite!_Oh my God, oh my God- Sophie what in Heaven's name happened?!"

"Something went through the window!" I pointed to the brick lying in the corner of the room.

"Bring it here."

While Tintin examined his father in a rapid fashion, I stepped gingerly across the room and retrieved the brick. It was a typical sort of red brick (redder now it had Marc's blood smeared in the corner.) and there was some string wrapped around it.

"Papa! Can you hear me? Sophie, I think he's just unconscious, just unconscious-"

Slipped snugly under this string was…

"A note."

"What?" Tintin looked up sharply.

"There's a note." I whispered. Tintin, cradling his father's head in his arms, went white.

"What- does it say?" He asked, almost inaudibly.

With shaking hands I unfolded it, then quickly wished I hadn't. Tintin took it from me as his mother arrived in a flood of tears, and in that moment, the only thing I could see was the letters on that page:

"DON'T START. OR THE OLD MAN WON'T BE THE ONLY ONE GETTING HURT."

"_**Soit dit en passant, où est Papa?": By the way, where is Dad?**_

"_**Voici, juste un moment.**_**": **_**Here. Just a moment**_

"_**La fille mal gardée**__**"**_**: "**_**The Wayward Daughter," a famous ballet.**_

_**Fils: Son**_

_**Maman est dans la cave, aller la chercher! Vite!**__** : Mum is in the cellar, go and find her! Quickly!**_

**Apologies for any incorrect French, I try my best!**

**Can you tell I'm bad at suspense?**

**There was quite a bit that I wanted to add in between Geraldine suggesting the Yellow Room and Sophie waking up, but maybe I'll keep that as a reviewer incentive, eh? **

**Talking of which, please R&R and I'll dish out cookies.**

**Thank you to all the new reviewers and readers, I really appreciate you finding me, and thanks to the old ones for keeping reading!**

**Onwards! Red xxx**


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